Assur'd us. Soon as we had quitted them,Advancing onward, lo! a voice that seem'dLike vollied light'ning, when it rives the air,Met us, and shouted, "Whosoever findsWill slay me," then fled from us, as the boltLanc'd sudden from a downward-rushing cloud.When it had giv'n short truce unto our hearing,Behold the other with a crash as loudAs the quick-following thunder: "Mark in meAglauros turn'd to rock." I at the soundRetreating drew more closely to my guide. Now in mute stillness rested all the air:And thus he spake: "There was the galling bit.But your old enemy so baits his hook,He drags you eager to him. Hence nor curbAvails you, nor reclaiming call. Heav'n callsAnd round about you wheeling courts your gazeWith everlasting beauties. Yet your eyeTurns with fond doting still upon the earth.Therefore He smites you who discerneth all."

CANTO XV

As much as 'twixt the third hour's close and dawn,Appeareth of heav'n's sphere, that ever whirlsAs restless as an infant in his play,So much appear'd remaining to the sunOf his slope journey towards the western goal. Evening was there, and here the noon of night;and full upon our forehead smote the beams.For round the mountain, circling, so our pathHad led us, that toward the sun-set nowDirect we journey'd: when I felt a weightOf more exceeding splendour, than before,Press on my front. The cause unknown, amazePossess'd me, and both hands against my browLifting, I interpos'd them, as a screen,That of its gorgeous superflux of lightClipp'd the diminish'd orb. As when the ray,Striking On water or the surface clearOf mirror, leaps unto the opposite part,Ascending at a glance, e'en as it fell,(And so much differs from the stone, that fallsThrough equal space, as practice skill hath shown;Thus with refracted light before me seemedThe ground there smitten; whence in sudden hasteMy sight recoil'd. "What is this, sire belov'd!'Gainst which I strive to shield the sight in vain?"Cried I, "and which towards us moving seems?" "Marvel not, if the family of heav'n,"He answer'd, "yet with dazzling radiance dimThy sense it is a messenger who comes,Inviting man's ascent. Such sights ere long,Not grievous, shall impart to thee delight,As thy perception is by nature wroughtUp to their pitch." The blessed angel, soonAs we had reach'd him, hail'd us with glad voice:"Here enter on a ladder far less steepThan ye have yet encounter'd." We forthwithAscending, heard behind us chanted sweet,"Blessed the merciful," and "happy thou!That conquer'st." Lonely each, my guide and IPursued our upward way; and as we went,Some profit from his words I hop'd to win,And thus of him inquiring, fram'd my speech: "What meant Romagna's spirit, when he spakeOf bliss exclusive with no partner shar'd?" He straight replied: "No wonder, since he knows,What sorrow waits on his own worst defect,If he chide others, that they less may mourn.Because ye point your wishes at a mark,Where, by communion of possessors, partIs lessen'd, envy bloweth up the sighs of men.No fear of that might touch ye, if the loveOf higher sphere exalted your desire.For there, by how much more they call it ours,So much propriety of each in goodIncreases more, and heighten'd charityWraps that fair cloister in a brighter flame." "Now lack I satisfaction more," said I,"Than if thou hadst been silent at the first,And doubt more gathers on my lab'ring thought.How can it chance, that good distributed,The many, that possess it, makes more rich,Than if 't were shar'd by few?" He answering thus:"Thy mind, reverting still to things of earth,Strikes darkness from true light. The highest goodUnlimited, ineffable, doth so speedTo love, as beam to lucid body darts,Giving as much of ardour as it finds.The sempiternal effluence streams abroadSpreading, wherever charity extends.So that the more aspirants to that blissAre multiplied, more good is there to love,And more is lov'd; as mirrors, that reflect,Each unto other, propagated light.If these my words avail not to allayThy thirsting, Beatrice thou shalt see,Who of this want, and of all else thou hast,Shall rid thee to the full. Provide but thouThat from thy temples may be soon eras'd,E'en as the two already, those five scars,That when they pain thee worst, then kindliest heal," "Thou," I had said, "content'st me," when I sawThe other round was gain'd, and wond'ring eyesDid keep me mute. There suddenly I seem'dBy an ecstatic vision wrapt away;And in a temple saw, methought, a crowdOf many persons; and at th' entrance stoodA dame, whose sweet demeanour did expressA mother's love, who said, "Child! why hast thouDealt with us thus? Behold thy sire and ISorrowing have sought thee;" and so held her peace,And straight the vision fled. A female nextAppear'd before me, down whose visage cours'dThose waters, that grief forces out from oneBy deep resentment stung, who seem'd to say:"If thou, Pisistratus, be lord indeedOver this city, nam'd with such debateOf adverse gods, and whence each science sparkles,Avenge thee of those arms, whose bold embraceHath clasp'd our daughter; "and to fuel, meseem'd,Benign and meek, with visage undisturb'd,Her sovran spake: "How shall we those requite,Who wish us evil, if we thus condemnThe man that loves us?" After that I sawA multitude, in fury burning, slayWith stones a stripling youth, and shout amain"Destroy, destroy: "and him I saw, who bow'dHeavy with death unto the ground, yet madeHis eyes, unfolded upward, gates to heav'n,Praying forgiveness of th' Almighty Sire,Amidst that cruel conflict, on his foes,With looks, that With compassion to their aim. Soon as my spirit, from her airy flightReturning, sought again the things, whose truthDepends not on her shaping, I observ'dHow she had rov'd to no unreal scenes Meanwhile the leader, who might see I mov'd,As one, who struggles to shake off his sleep,Exclaim'd: "What ails thee, that thou canst not holdThy footing firm, but more than half a leagueHast travel'd with clos'd eyes and tott'ring gait,Like to a man by wine or sleep o'ercharg'd?" "Beloved father! so thou deign," said I,"To listen, I will tell thee what appear'dBefore me, when so fail'd my sinking steps." He thus: "Not if thy Countenance were mask'dWith hundred vizards, could a thought of thineHow small soe'er, elude me. What thou saw'stWas shown, that freely thou mightst ope thy heartTo the waters of peace, that flow diffus'dFrom their eternal fountain. I not ask'd,What ails thee? for such cause as he doth, whoLooks only with that eye which sees no more,When spiritless the body lies; but ask'd,To give fresh vigour to thy foot. Such goadsThe slow and loit'ring need; that they be foundNot wanting, when their hour of watch returns." So on we journey'd through the evening skyGazing intent, far onward, as our eyesWith level view could stretch against the brightVespertine ray: and lo! by slow degreesGath'ring, a fog made tow'rds us, dark as night.There was no room for 'scaping; and that mistBereft us, both of sight and the pure air.

CANTO XVI

Hell's dunnest gloom, or night unlustrous, dark,Of every planes 'reft, and pall'd in clouds,Did never spread before the sight a veilIn thickness like that fog, nor to the senseSo palpable and gross. Ent'ring its shade,Mine eye endured not with unclosed lids;Which marking, near me drew the faithful guide,Offering me his shoulder for a stay. As the blind man behind his leader walks,Lest he should err, or stumble unawaresOn what might harm him, or perhaps destroy,I journey'd through that bitter air and foul,Still list'ning to my escort's warning voice,"Look that from me thou part not." Straight I heardVoices, and each one seem'd to pray for peace,And for compassion, to the Lamb of GodThat taketh sins away. Their prelude stillWas "Agnus Dei," and through all the choir,One voice, one measure ran, that perfect seem'dThe concord of their song. "Are these I hearSpirits, O master?" I exclaim'd; and he:"Thou aim'st aright: these loose the bonds of wrath." "Now who art thou, that through our smoke dost cleave?And speak'st of us, as thou thyself e'en yetDividest time by calends?" So one voiceBespake me; whence my master said: "Reply;And ask, if upward hence the passage lead." "O being! who dost make thee pure, to standBeautiful once more in thy Maker's sight!Along with me: and thou shalt hear and wonder."Thus I, whereto the spirit answering spake:"Long as 't is lawful for me, shall my stepsFollow on thine; and since the cloudy smokeForbids the seeing, hearing in its steadShall keep us join'd." I then forthwith began"Yet in my mortal swathing, I ascendTo higher regions, and am hither comeThrough the fearful agony of hell.And, if so largely God hath doled his grace,That, clean beside all modern precedent,He wills me to behold his kingly state,From me conceal not who thou wast, ere deathHad loos'd thee; but instruct me: and instructIf rightly to the pass I tend; thy wordsThe way directing as a safe escort." "I was of Lombardy, and Marco call'd:Not inexperienc'd of the world, that worthI still affected, from which all have turn'dThe nerveless bow aside. Thy course tends rightUnto the summit:" and, replying thus,He added, "I beseech thee pray for me,When thou shalt come aloft." And I to him:"Accept my faith for pledge I will performWhat thou requirest. Yet one doubt remains,That wrings me sorely, if I solve it not,Singly before it urg'd me, doubled nowBy thine opinion, when I couple thatWith one elsewhere declar'd, each strength'ning other.The world indeed is even so forlornOf all good as thou speak'st it and so swarmsWith every evil. Yet, beseech thee, pointThe cause out to me, that myself may see,And unto others show it: for in heavenOne places it, and one on earth below." Then heaving forth a deep and audible sigh,"Brother!" he thus began, "the world is blind;And thou in truth com'st from it. Ye, who live,Do so each cause refer to heav'n above,E'en as its motion of necessityDrew with it all that moves. If this were so,Free choice in you were none; nor justice wouldThere should be joy for virtue, woe for ill.Your movements have their primal bent from heaven;Not all; yet said I all; what then ensues?Light have ye still to follow evil or good,And of the will free power, which, if it standFirm and unwearied in Heav'n's first assay,Conquers at last, so it be cherish'd well,Triumphant over all. To mightier force,To better nature subject, ye abideFree, not constrain'd by that, which forms in youThe reasoning mind uninfluenc'd of the stars.If then the present race of mankind err,Seek in yourselves the cause, and find it there.Herein thou shalt confess me no false spy. "Forth from his plastic hand, who charm'd beholdsHer image ere she yet exist, the soulComes like a babe, that wantons sportivelyWeeping and laughing in its wayward moods,As artless and as ignorant of aught,Save that her Maker being one who dwellsWith gladness ever, willingly she turnsTo whate'er yields her joy. Of some slight goodThe flavour soon she tastes; and, snar'd by that,With fondness she pursues it, if no guideRecall, no rein direct her wand'ring course.Hence it behov'd, the law should be a curb;A sovereign hence behov'd, whose piercing viewMight mark at least the fortress and main towerOf the true city. Laws indeed there are:But who is he observes them? None; not he,Who goes before, the shepherd of the flock,Who chews the cud but doth not cleave the hoof.Therefore the multitude, who see their guideStrike at the very good they covet most,Feed there and look no further. Thus the causeIs not corrupted nature in yourselves,But ill-conducting, that hath turn'd the worldTo evil. Rome, that turn'd it unto good,Was wont to boast two suns, whose several beamsCast light on either way, the world's and God's.One since hath quench'd the other; and the swordIs grafted on the crook; and so conjoin'dEach must perforce decline to worse, unaw'dBy fear of other. If thou doubt me, markThe blade: each herb is judg'd of by its seed.That land, through which Adice and the PoTheir waters roll, was once the residenceOf courtesy and velour, ere the day,That frown'd on Frederick; now secure may passThose limits, whosoe'er hath left, for shame,To talk with good men, or come near their haunts.Three aged ones are still found there, in whomThe old time chides the new: these deem it longEre God restore them to a better world:The good Gherardo, of Palazzo heConrad, and Guido of Castello, nam'dIn Gallic phrase more fitly the plain Lombard.On this at last conclude. The church of Rome,Mixing two governments that ill assort,Hath miss'd her footing, fall'n into the mire,And there herself and burden much defil'd." "O Marco!" I replied, shine argumentsConvince me: and the cause I now discernWhy of the heritage no portion cameTo Levi's offspring. But resolve me thisWho that Gherardo is, that as thou saystIs left a sample of the perish'd race,And for rebuke to this untoward age?" "Either thy words," said he, "deceive; or elseAre meant to try me; that thou, speaking Tuscan,Appear'st not to have heard of good Gherado;The sole addition that, by which I know him;Unless I borrow'd from his daughter GaiaAnother name to grace him. God be with you.I bear you company no more. BeholdThe dawn with white ray glimm'ring through the mist.I must away--the angel comes--ere heAppear." He said, and would not hear me more.

CANTO XVII

Call to remembrance, reader, if thou e'erHast, on a mountain top, been ta'en by cloud,Through which thou saw'st no better, than the moleDoth through opacous membrane; then, whene'erThe wat'ry vapours dense began to meltInto thin air, how faintly the sun's sphereSeem'd wading through them; so thy nimble thoughtMay image, how at first I re-beheldThe sun, that bedward now his couch o'erhung. Thus with my leader's feet still equaling paceFrom forth that cloud I came, when now expir'dThe parting beams from off the nether shores. O quick and forgetive power! that sometimes dostSo rob us of ourselves, we take no markThough round about us thousand trumpets clang!What moves thee, if the senses stir not? LightKindled in heav'n, spontaneous, self-inform'd,Or likelier gliding down with swift illapseBy will divine. Portray'd before me cameThe traces of her dire impiety,Whose form was chang'd into the bird, that mostDelights itself in song: and here my mindWas inwardly so wrapt, it gave no placeTo aught that ask'd admittance from without. Next shower'd into my fantasy a shapeAs of one crucified, whose visage spakeFell rancour, malice deep, wherein he died;And round him Ahasuerus the great king,Esther his bride, and Mordecai the just,Blameless in word and deed. As of itselfThat unsubstantial coinage of the brainBurst, like a bubble, Which the water failsThat fed it; in my vision straight uproseA damsel weeping loud, and cried, "O queen!O mother! wherefore has intemperate ireDriv'n thee to loath thy being? Not to loseLavinia, desp'rate thou hast slain thyself.Now hast thou lost me. I am she, whose tearsMourn, ere I fall, a mother's timeless end." E'en as a sleep breaks off, if suddenlyNew radiance strike upon the closed lids,The broken slumber quivering ere it dies;Thus from before me sunk that imageryVanishing, soon as on my face there struckThe light, outshining far our earthly beam.As round I turn'd me to survey what placeI had arriv'd at, "Here ye mount," exclaim'dA voice, that other purpose left me none,Save will so eager to behold who spake,I could not choose but gaze. As 'fore the sun,That weighs our vision down, and veils his formIn light transcendent, thus my virtue fail'dUnequal. "This is Spirit from above,Who marshals us our upward way, unsought;And in his own light shrouds him;. As a manDoth for himself, so now is done for us.For whoso waits imploring, yet sees needOf his prompt aidance, sets himself prepar'dFor blunt denial, ere the suit be made.Refuse we not to lend a ready footAt such inviting: haste we to ascend,Before it darken: for we may not then,Till morn again return." So spake my guide;And to one ladder both address'd our steps;And the first stair approaching, I perceiv'dNear me as 'twere the waving of a wing,That fann'd my face and whisper'd: "Blessed theyThe peacemakers: they know not evil wrath." Now to such height above our heads were rais'dThe last beams, follow'd close by hooded night,That many a star on all sides through the gloomShone out. "Why partest from me, O my strength?"So with myself I commun'd; for I feltMy o'ertoil'd sinews slacken. We had reach'dThe summit, and were fix'd like to a barkArriv'd at land. And waiting a short space,If aught should meet mine ear in that new round,Then to my guide I turn'd, and said: "Lov'd sire!Declare what guilt is on this circle purg'd.If our feet rest, no need thy speech should pause." He thus to me: "The love of good, whate'erWanted of just proportion, here fulfils.Here plies afresh the oar, that loiter'd ill.But that thou mayst yet clearlier understand,Give ear unto my words, and thou shalt cullSome fruit may please thee well, from this delay. "Creator, nor created being, ne'er,My son," he thus began, "was without love,Or natural, or the free spirit's growth.Thou hast not that to learn. The natural stillIs without error; but the other swerves,If on ill object bent, or through excessOf vigour, or defect. While e'er it seeksThe primal blessings, or with measure dueTh' inferior, no delight, that flows from it,Partakes of ill. But let it warp to evil,Or with more ardour than behooves, or less.Pursue the good, the thing created thenWorks 'gainst its Maker. Hence thou must inferThat love is germin of each virtue in ye,And of each act no less, that merits pain.Now since it may not be, but love intendThe welfare mainly of the thing it loves,All from self-hatred are secure; and sinceNo being can be thought t' exist apartAnd independent of the first, a barOf equal force restrains from hating that. "Grant the distinction just; and it remainsThe' evil must be another's, which is lov'd.Three ways such love is gender'd in your clay.There is who hopes (his neighbour's worth deprest,)Preeminence himself, and coverts henceFor his own greatness that another fall.There is who so much fears the loss of power,Fame, favour, glory (should his fellow mountAbove him), and so sickens at the thought,He loves their opposite: and there is he,Whom wrong or insult seems to gall and shameThat he doth thirst for vengeance, and such needsMust doat on other's evil. Here beneathThis threefold love is mourn'd. Of th' other sortBe now instructed, that which follows goodBut with disorder'd and irregular course. "All indistinctly apprehend a blissOn which the soul may rest, the hearts of allYearn after it, and to that wished bournAll therefore strive to tend. If ye beholdOr seek it with a love remiss and lax,This cornice after just repenting laysIts penal torment on ye. Other goodThere is, where man finds not his happiness:It is not true fruition, not that blestEssence, of every good the branch and root.The love too lavishly bestow'd on this,Along three circles over us, is mourn'd.Account of that division tripartiteExpect not, fitter for thine own research.

CANTO XVIII

The teacher ended, and his high discourseConcluding, earnest in my looks inquir'dIf I appear'd content; and I, whom stillUnsated thirst to hear him urg'd, was mute,Mute outwardly, yet inwardly I said:"Perchance my too much questioning offendsBut he, true father, mark'd the secret wishBy diffidence restrain'd, and speaking, gaveMe boldness thus to speak: "Master, my SightGathers so lively virtue from thy beams,That all, thy words convey, distinct is seen.Wherefore I pray thee, father, whom this heartHolds dearest! thou wouldst deign by proof t' unfoldThat love, from which as from their source thou bring'stAll good deeds and their opposite." He then:"To what I now disclose be thy clear kenDirected, and thou plainly shalt beholdHow much those blind have err'd, who make themselvesThe guides of men. The soul, created aptTo love, moves versatile which way soe'erAught pleasing prompts her, soon as she is wak'dBy pleasure into act. Of substance trueYour apprehension forms its counterfeit,And in you the ideal shape presentingAttracts the soul's regard. If she, thus drawn,incline toward it, love is that inclining,And a new nature knit by pleasure in ye.Then as the fire points up, and mounting seeksHis birth-place and his lasting seat, e'en thusEnters the captive soul into desire,Which is a spiritual motion, that ne'er restsBefore enjoyment of the thing it loves.Enough to show thee, how the truth from thoseIs hidden, who aver all love a thingPraise-worthy in itself: although perhapsIts substance seem still good. Yet if the waxBe good, it follows not th' impression must.""What love is," I return'd, "thy words, O guide!And my own docile mind, reveal. Yet thenceNew doubts have sprung. For from without if loveBe offer'd to us, and the spirit knowsNo other footing, tend she right or wrong,Is no desert of hers." He answering thus:"What reason here discovers I have powerTo show thee: that which lies beyond, expectFrom Beatrice, faith not reason's task.Spirit, substantial form, with matter join'dNot in confusion mix'd, hath in itselfSpecific virtue of that union born,Which is not felt except it work, nor prov'dBut through effect, as vegetable lifeBy the green leaf. From whence his intellectDeduced its primal notices of things,Man therefore knows not, or his appetitesTheir first affections; such in you, as zealIn bees to gather honey; at the first,Volition, meriting nor blame nor praise.But o'er each lower faculty supreme,That as she list are summon'd to her bar,Ye have that virtue in you, whose just voiceUttereth counsel, and whose word should keepThe threshold of assent. Here is the source,Whence cause of merit in you is deriv'd,E'en as the affections good or ill she takes,Or severs, winnow'd as the chaff. Those menWho reas'ning went to depth profoundest, mark'dThat innate freedom, and were thence induc'dTo leave their moral teaching to the world.Grant then, that from necessity ariseAll love that glows within you; to dismissOr harbour it, the pow'r is in yourselves.Remember, Beatrice, in her style,Denominates free choice by eminenceThe noble virtue, if in talk with theeShe touch upon that theme." The moon, well nighTo midnight hour belated, made the starsAppear to wink and fade; and her broad diskSeem'd like a crag on fire, as up the vaultThat course she journey'd, which the sun then warms,When they of Rome behold him at his set.Betwixt Sardinia and the Corsic isle.And now the weight, that hung upon my thought,Was lighten'd by the aid of that clear spirit,Who raiseth Andes above Mantua's name.I therefore, when my questions had obtain'dSolution plain and ample, stood as oneMusing in dreary slumber; but not longSlumber'd; for suddenly a multitude,The steep already turning, from behind,Rush'd on. With fury and like random rout,As echoing on their shores at midnight heardIsmenus and Asopus, for his ThebesIf Bacchus' help were needed; so came theseTumultuous, curving each his rapid step,By eagerness impell'd of holy love. Soon they o'ertook us; with such swiftness mov'dThe mighty crowd. Two spirits at their headCried weeping; "Blessed Mary sought with hasteThe hilly region. Caesar to subdueIlerda, darted in Marseilles his sting,And flew to Spain."--"Oh tarry not: away;"The others shouted; "let not time be lostThrough slackness of affection. Hearty zealTo serve reanimates celestial grace." "O ye, in whom intenser fervencyHaply supplies, where lukewarm erst ye fail'd,Slow or neglectful, to absolve your partOf good and virtuous, this man, who yet lives,(Credit my tale, though strange) desires t' ascend,So morning rise to light us. Therefore sayWhich hand leads nearest to the rifted rock?" So spake my guide, to whom a shade return'd:"Come after us, and thou shalt find the cleft.We may not linger: such resistless willSpeeds our unwearied course. Vouchsafe us thenThy pardon, if our duty seem to theeDiscourteous rudeness. In Verona IWas abbot of San Zeno, when the handOf Barbarossa grasp'd Imperial sway,That name, ne'er utter'd without tears in Milan.And there is he, hath one foot in his grave,Who for that monastery ere long shall weep,Ruing his power misus'd: for that his son,Of body ill compact, and worse in mind,And born in evil, he hath set in placeOf its true pastor." Whether more he spake,Or here was mute, I know not: he had spedE'en now so far beyond us. Yet thus muchI heard, and in rememb'rance treasur'd it. He then, who never fail'd me at my need,Cried, "Hither turn. Lo! two with sharp remorseChiding their sin!" In rear of all the troopThese shouted: "First they died, to whom the seaOpen'd, or ever Jordan saw his heirs:And they, who with Aeneas to the endEndur'd not suffering, for their portion choseLife without glory." Soon as they had fledPast reach of sight, new thought within me roseBy others follow'd fast, and each unlikeIts fellow: till led on from thought to thought,And pleasur'd with the fleeting train, mine eyeWas clos'd, and meditation chang'd to dream.

CANTO XIX

It was the hour, when of diurnal heatNo reliques chafe the cold beams of the moon,O'erpower'd by earth, or planetary swayOf Saturn; and the geomancer seesHis Greater Fortune up the east ascend,Where gray dawn checkers first the shadowy cone;When 'fore me in my dream a woman's shapeThere came, with lips that stammer'd, eyes aslant,Distorted feet, hands maim'd, and colour pale. I look'd upon her; and as sunshine cheersLimbs numb'd by nightly cold, e'en thus my lookUnloos'd her tongue, next in brief space her formDecrepit rais'd erect, and faded faceWith love's own hue illum'd. Recov'ring speechShe forthwith warbling such a strain began,That I, how loth soe'er, could scarce have heldAttention from the song. "I," thus she sang,"I am the Siren, she, whom marinersOn the wide sea are wilder'd when they hear:Such fulness of delight the list'ner feels.I from his course Ulysses by my layEnchanted drew. Whoe'er frequents me onceParts seldom; so I charm him, and his heartContented knows no void." Or ere her mouthWas clos'd, to shame her at her side appear'dA dame of semblance holy. With stern voiceShe utter'd; "Say, O Virgil, who is this?"Which hearing, he approach'd, with eyes still bentToward that goodly presence: th' other seiz'd her,And, her robes tearing, open'd her before,And show'd the belly to me, whence a smell,Exhaling loathsome, wak'd me. Round I turn'dMine eyes, and thus the teacher: "At the leastThree times my voice hath call'd thee. Rise, begone.Let us the opening find where thou mayst pass." I straightway rose. Now day, pour'd down from high,Fill'd all the circuits of the sacred mount;And, as we journey'd, on our shoulder smoteThe early ray. I follow'd, stooping lowMy forehead, as a man, o'ercharg'd with thought,Who bends him to the likeness of an arch,That midway spans the flood; when thus I heard,"Come, enter here," in tone so soft and mild,As never met the ear on mortal strand. With swan-like wings dispread and pointing up,Who thus had spoken marshal'd us along,Where each side of the solid masonryThe sloping, walls retir'd; then mov'd his plumes,And fanning us, affirm'd that those, who mourn,Are blessed, for that comfort shall be theirs. "What aileth thee, that still thou look'st to earth?"Began my leader; while th' angelic shapeA little over us his station took. "New vision," I replied, "hath rais'd in me8urmisings strange and anxious doubts, whereonMy soul intent allows no other thoughtOr room or entrance.--"Hast thou seen," said he,"That old enchantress, her, whose wiles aloneThe spirits o'er us weep for? Hast thou seenHow man may free him of her bonds? Enough.Let thy heels spurn the earth, and thy rais'd kenFix on the lure, which heav'n's eternal KingWhirls in the rolling spheres." As on his feetThe falcon first looks down, then to the skyTurns, and forth stretches eager for the food,That woos him thither; so the call I heard,So onward, far as the dividing rockGave way, I journey'd, till the plain was reach'd. On the fifth circle when I stood at large,A race appear'd before me, on the groundAll downward lying prone and weeping sore."My soul hath cleaved to the dust," I heardWith sighs so deep, they well nigh choak'd the words."O ye elect of God, whose penal woesBoth hope and justice mitigate, directTow'rds the steep rising our uncertain way." "If ye approach secure from this our doom,Prostration--and would urge your course with speed,See that ye still to rightward keep the brink." So them the bard besought; and such the words,Beyond us some short space, in answer came. I noted what remain'd yet hidden from them:Thence to my liege's eyes mine eyes I bent,And he, forthwith interpreting their suit,Beckon'd his glad assent. Free then to act,As pleas'd me, I drew near, and took my standO`er that shade, whose words I late had mark'd.And, "Spirit!" I said, "in whom repentant tearsMature that blessed hour, when thou with GodShalt find acceptance, for a while suspendFor me that mightier care. Say who thou wast,Why thus ye grovel on your bellies prone,And if in aught ye wish my service there,Whence living I am come." He answering spake"The cause why Heav'n our back toward his copeReverses, shalt thou know: but me know firstThe successor of Peter, and the nameAnd title of my lineage from that stream,That' twixt Chiaveri and Siestri drawsHis limpid waters through the lowly glen.A month and little more by proof I learnt,With what a weight that robe of sov'reigntyUpon his shoulder rests, who from the mireWould guard it: that each other fardel seemsBut feathers in the balance. Late, alas!Was my conversion: but when I becameRome's pastor, I discern'd at once the dreamAnd cozenage of life, saw that the heartRested not there, and yet no prouder heightLur'd on the climber: wherefore, of that lifeNo more enamour'd, in my bosom loveOf purer being kindled. For till thenI was a soul in misery, alienateFrom God, and covetous of all earthly things;Now, as thou seest, here punish'd for my doting.Such cleansing from the taint of avariceDo spirits converted need. This mount inflictsNo direr penalty. E'en as our eyesFasten'd below, nor e'er to loftier climeWere lifted, thus hath justice level'd usHere on the earth. As avarice quench'd our loveOf good, without which is no working, thusHere justice holds us prison'd, hand and footChain'd down and bound, while heaven's just Lord shall please.So long to tarry motionless outstretch'd." My knees I stoop'd, and would have spoke; but he,Ere my beginning, by his ear perceiv'dI did him reverence; and "What cause," said he,"Hath bow'd thee thus!"--" Compunction," I rejoin'd."And inward awe of your high dignity." "Up," he exclaim'd, "brother! upon thy feetArise: err not: thy fellow servant I,(Thine and all others') of one Sovran Power.If thou hast ever mark'd those holy soundsOf gospel truth, 'nor shall be given ill marriage,'Thou mayst discern the reasons of my speech.Go thy ways now; and linger here no more.Thy tarrying is a let unto the tears,With which I hasten that whereof thou spak'st.I have on earth a kinswoman; her nameAlagia, worthy in herself, so illExample of our house corrupt her not:And she is all remaineth of me there."

CANTO XX

Ill strives the will, 'gainst will more wise that strivesHis pleasure therefore to mine own preferr'd,I drew the sponge yet thirsty from the wave. Onward I mov'd: he also onward mov'd,Who led me, coasting still, wherever placeAlong the rock was vacant, as a manWalks near the battlements on narrow wall.For those on th' other part, who drop by dropWring out their all-infecting malady,Too closely press the verge. Accurst be thou!Inveterate wolf! whose gorge ingluts more prey,Than every beast beside, yet is not fill'd!So bottomless thy maw! --Ye spheres of heaven!To whom there are, as seems, who attributeAll change in mortal state, when is the dayOf his appearing, for whom fate reservesTo chase her hence? --With wary steps and slowWe pass'd; and I attentive to the shades,Whom piteously I heard lament and wail;And, 'midst the wailing, one before us heardCry out "O blessed Virgin!" as a dameIn the sharp pangs of childbed; and "How poorThou wast," it added, "witness that low roofWhere thou didst lay thy sacred burden down.O good Fabricius! thou didst virtue chooseWith poverty, before great wealth with vice." The words so pleas'd me, that desire to knowThe spirit, from whose lip they seem'd to come,Did draw me onward. Yet it spake the giftOf Nicholas, which on the maidens heBounteous bestow'd, to save their youthful primeUnblemish'd. "Spirit! who dost speak of deedsSo worthy, tell me who thou was," I said,"And why thou dost with single voice renewMemorial of such praise. That boon vouchsaf'dHaply shall meet reward; if I returnTo finish the Short pilgrimage of life,Still speeding to its close on restless wing." "I," answer'd he, "will tell thee, not for hell,Which thence I look for; but that in thyselfGrace so exceeding shines, before thy timeOf mortal dissolution. I was rootOf that ill plant, whose shade such poison shedsO'er all the Christian land, that seldom thenceGood fruit is gather'd. Vengeance soon should come,Had Ghent and Douay, Lille and Bruges power;And vengeance I of heav'n's great Judge implore.Hugh Capet was I high: from me descendThe Philips and the Louis, of whom FranceNewly is govern'd; born of one, who ply'dThe slaughterer's trade at Paris. When the raceOf ancient kings had vanish'd (all save oneWrapt up in sable weeds) within my gripeI found the reins of empire, and such powersOf new acquirement, with full store of friends,That soon the widow'd circlet of the crownWas girt upon the temples of my son,He, from whose bones th' anointed race begins.Till the great dower of Provence had remov'dThe stains, that yet obscur'd our lowly blood,Its sway indeed was narrow, but howe'erIt wrought no evil: there, with force and lies,Began its rapine; after, for amends,Poitou it seiz'd, Navarre and Gascony.To Italy came Charles, and for amendsYoung Conradine an innocent victim slew,And sent th' angelic teacher back to heav'n,Still for amends. I see the time at hand,That forth from France invites another CharlesTo make himself and kindred better known.Unarm'd he issues, saving with that lance,Which the arch-traitor tilted with; and thatHe carries with so home a thrust, as rivesThe bowels of poor Florence. No increaseOf territory hence, but sin and shameShall be his guerdon, and so much the moreAs he more lightly deems of such foul wrong.I see the other, who a prisoner lateHad steps on shore, exposing to the martHis daughter, whom he bargains for, as doThe Corsairs for their slaves. O avarice!What canst thou more, who hast subdued our bloodSo wholly to thyself, they feel no careOf their own flesh? To hide with direr guiltPast ill and future, lo! the flower-de-luceEnters Alagna! in his Vicar ChristHimself a captive, and his mockeryActed again! Lo! to his holy lipThe vinegar and gall once more applied!And he 'twixt living robbers doom'd to bleed!Lo! the new Pilate, of whose crueltySuch violence cannot fill the measure up,With no degree to sanction, pushes onInto the temple his yet eager sails! "O sovran Master! when shall I rejoiceTo see the vengeance, which thy wrath well-pleas'dIn secret silence broods?--While daylight lasts,So long what thou didst hear of her, sole spouseOf the Great Spirit, and on which thou turn'dstTo me for comment, is the general themeOf all our prayers: but when it darkens, thenA different strain we utter, then recordPygmalion, whom his gluttonous thirst of goldMade traitor, robber, parricide: the woesOf Midas, which his greedy wish ensued,Mark'd for derision to all future times:And the fond Achan, how he stole the prey,That yet he seems by Joshua's ire pursued.Sapphira with her husband next, we blame;And praise the forefeet, that with furious rampSpurn'd Heliodorus. All the mountain roundRings with the infamy of Thracia's king,Who slew his Phrygian charge: and last a shoutAscends: "Declare, O Crassus! for thou know'st,The flavour of thy gold." The voice of eachNow high now low, as each his impulse prompts,Is led through many a pitch, acute or grave.Therefore, not singly, I erewhile rehears'dThat blessedness we tell of in the day:But near me none beside his accent rais'd." From him we now had parted, and essay'dWith utmost efforts to surmount the way,When I did feel, as nodding to its fall,The mountain tremble; whence an icy chillSeiz'd on me, as on one to death convey'd.So shook not Delos, when Latona thereCouch'd to bring forth the twin-born eyes of heaven. Forthwith from every side a shout aroseSo vehement, that suddenly my guideDrew near, and cried: "Doubt not, while I conduct thee.""Glory!" all shouted (such the sounds mine earGather'd from those, who near me swell'd the sounds)"Glory in the highest be to God." We stoodImmovably suspended, like to those,The shepherds, who first heard in Bethlehem's fieldThat song: till ceas'd the trembling, and the songWas ended: then our hallow'd path resum'd,Eying the prostrate shadows, who renew'dTheir custom'd mourning. Never in my breastDid ignorance so struggle with desireOf knowledge, if my memory do not err,As in that moment; nor through haste dar'd ITo question, nor myself could aught discern,So on I far'd in thoughtfulness and dread.

CANTO XXI

The natural thirst, ne'er quench'd but from the well,Whereof the woman of Samaria crav'd,Excited: haste along the cumber'd path,After my guide, impell'd; and pity mov'dMy bosom for the 'vengeful deed, though just.When lo! even as Luke relates, that ChristAppear'd unto the two upon their way,New-risen from his vaulted grave; to usA shade appear'd, and after us approach'd,Contemplating the crowd beneath its feet.We were not ware of it; so first it spake,Saying, "God give you peace, my brethren!" thenSudden we turn'd: and Virgil such salute,As fitted that kind greeting, gave, and cried:"Peace in the blessed council be thy lotAwarded by that righteous court, which meTo everlasting banishment exiles!" "How!" he exclaim'd, nor from his speed meanwhileDesisting, "If that ye be spirits, whom GodVouchsafes not room above, who up the heightHas been thus far your guide?" To whom the bard:"If thou observe the tokens, which this manTrac'd by the finger of the angel bears,'Tis plain that in the kingdom of the justHe needs must share. But sithence she, whose wheelSpins day and night, for him not yet had drawnThat yarn, which, on the fatal distaff pil'd,Clotho apportions to each wight that breathes,His soul, that sister is to mine and thine,Not of herself could mount, for not like oursHer ken: whence I, from forth the ample gulfOf hell was ta'en, to lead him, and will leadFar as my lore avails. But, if thou know,Instruct us for what cause, the mount erewhileThus shook and trembled: wherefore all at onceSeem'd shouting, even from his wave-wash'd foot." That questioning so tallied with my wish,The thirst did feel abatement of its edgeE'en from expectance. He forthwith replied,"In its devotion nought irregularThis mount can witness, or by punctual ruleUnsanction'd; here from every change exempt.Other than that, which heaven in itselfDoth of itself receive, no influenceCan reach us. Tempest none, shower, hail or snow,Hoar frost or dewy moistness, higher fallsThan that brief scale of threefold steps: thick cloudsNor scudding rack are ever seen: swift glanceNe'er lightens, nor Thaumantian Iris gleams,That yonder often shift on each side heav'n.Vapour adust doth never mount aboveThe highest of the trinal stairs, whereonPeter's vicegerent stands. Lower perchance,With various motion rock'd, trembles the soil:But here, through wind in earth's deep hollow pent,I know not how, yet never trembled: thenTrembles, when any spirit feels itselfSo purified, that it may rise, or moveFor rising, and such loud acclaim ensues.Purification by the will aloneIs prov'd, that free to change societySeizes the soul rejoicing in her will.Desire of bliss is present from the first;But strong propension hinders, to that wishBy the just ordinance of heav'n oppos'd;Propension now as eager to fulfilTh' allotted torment, as erewhile to sin.And I who in this punishment had lainFive hundred years and more, but now have feltFree wish for happier clime. Therefore thou felt'stThe mountain tremble, and the spirits devoutHeard'st, over all his limits, utter praiseTo that liege Lord, whom I entreat their joyTo hasten." Thus he spake: and since the draughtIs grateful ever as the thirst is keen,No words may speak my fullness of content. "Now," said the instructor sage, "I see the netThat takes ye here, and how the toils are loos'd,Why rocks the mountain and why ye rejoice.Vouchsafe, that from thy lips I next may learn,Who on the earth thou wast, and wherefore hereSo many an age wert prostrate." --"In that time,When the good Titus, with Heav'n's King to help,Aveng'd those piteous gashes, whence the bloodBy Judas sold did issue, with the nameMost lasting and most honour'd there was IAbundantly renown'd," the shade reply'd,"Not yet with faith endued. So passing sweetMy vocal Spirit, from Tolosa, RomeTo herself drew me, where I meritedA myrtle garland to inwreathe my brow.Statius they name me still. Of Thebes I sang,And next of great Achilles: but i' th' wayFell with the second burthen. Of my flameThose sparkles were the seeds, which I deriv'dFrom the bright fountain of celestial fireThat feeds unnumber'd lamps, the song I meanWhich sounds Aeneas' wand'rings: that the breastI hung at, that the nurse, from whom my veinsDrank inspiration: whose authorityWas ever sacred with me. To have liv'dCoeval with the Mantuan, I would bideThe revolution of another sunBeyond my stated years in banishment." The Mantuan, when he heard him, turn'd to me,And holding silence: by his countenanceEnjoin'd me silence but the power which wills,Bears not supreme control: laughter and tearsFollow so closely on the passion prompts them,They wait not for the motions of the willIn natures most sincere. I did but smile,As one who winks; and thereupon the shadeBroke off, and peer'd into mine eyes, where bestOur looks interpret. "So to good eventMayst thou conduct such great emprize," he cried,"Say, why across thy visage beam'd, but now,The lightning of a smile!" On either partNow am I straiten'd; one conjures me speak,Th' other to silence binds me: whence a sighI utter, and the sigh is heard. "Speak on; "The teacher cried; "and do not fear to speak,But tell him what so earnestly he asks."Whereon I thus: "Perchance, O ancient spirit!Thou marvel'st at my smiling. There is roomFor yet more wonder. He who guides my kenOn high, he is that Mantuan, led by whomThou didst presume of men arid gods to sing.If other cause thou deem'dst for which I smil'd,Leave it as not the true one; and believeThose words, thou spak'st of him, indeed the cause." Now down he bent t' embrace my teacher's feet;But he forbade him: "Brother! do it not:Thou art a shadow, and behold'st a shade."He rising answer'd thus: "Now hast thou prov'dThe force and ardour of the love I bear thee,When I forget we are but things of air,And as a substance treat an empty shade."

CANTO XXII

Now we had left the angel, who had turn'dTo the sixth circle our ascending step,One gash from off my forehead raz'd: while they,Whose wishes tend to justice, shouted forth:"Blessed!" and ended with, "I thirst:" and I,More nimble than along the other straits,So journey'd, that, without the sense of toil,I follow'd upward the swift-footed shades;When Virgil thus began: "Let its pure flameFrom virtue flow, and love can never failTo warm another's bosom' so the lightShine manifestly forth. Hence from that hour,When 'mongst us in the purlieus of the deep,Came down the spirit of Aquinum's hard,Who told of thine affection, my good willHath been for thee of quality as strongAs ever link'd itself to one not seen.Therefore these stairs will now seem short to me.But tell me: and if too secure I looseThe rein with a friend's license, as a friendForgive me, and speak now as with a friend:How chanc'd it covetous desire could findPlace in that bosom, 'midst such ample storeOf wisdom, as thy zeal had treasur'd there?" First somewhat mov'd to laughter by his words,Statius replied: "Each syllable of thineIs a dear pledge of love. Things oft appearThat minister false matters to our doubts,When their true causes are remov'd from sight.Thy question doth assure me, thou believ'stI was on earth a covetous man, perhapsBecause thou found'st me in that circle plac'd.Know then I was too wide of avarice:And e'en for that excess, thousands of moonsHave wax'd and wan'd upon my sufferings.And were it not that I with heedful careNoted where thou exclaim'st as if in ireWith human nature, 'Why, thou cursed thirstOf gold! dost not with juster measure guideThe appetite of mortals?' I had metThe fierce encounter of the voluble rock.Then was I ware that with too ample wingThe hands may haste to lavishment, and turn'd,As from my other evil, so from thisIn penitence. How many from their graveShall with shorn locks arise, who living, ayeAnd at life's last extreme, of this offence,Through ignorance, did not repent. And know,The fault which lies direct from any sinIn level opposition, here With thatWastes its green rankness on one common heap.Therefore if I have been with those, who wailTheir avarice, to cleanse me, through reverseOf their transgression, such hath been my lot." To whom the sovran of the pastoral song:"While thou didst sing that cruel warfare wag'dBy the twin sorrow of Jocasta's womb,From thy discourse with Clio there, it seemsAs faith had not been shine: without the whichGood deeds suffice not. And if so, what sunRose on thee, or what candle pierc'd the darkThat thou didst after see to hoist the sail,And follow, where the fisherman had led?" He answering thus: "By thee conducted first,I enter'd the Parnassian grots, and quaff'dOf the clear spring; illumin'd first by theeOpen'd mine eyes to God. Thou didst, as one,Who, journeying through the darkness, hears a lightBehind, that profits not himself, but makesHis followers wise, when thou exclaimedst, 'Lo!A renovated world! Justice return'd!Times of primeval innocence restor'd!And a new race descended from above!'Poet and Christian both to thee I owed.That thou mayst mark more clearly what I trace,My hand shall stretch forth to inform the linesWith livelier colouring. Soon o'er all the world,By messengers from heav'n, the true beliefTeem'd now prolific, and that word of thineAccordant, to the new instructors chim'd.Induc'd by which agreement, I was wontResort to them; and soon their sanctitySo won upon me, that, Domitian's ragePursuing them, I mix'd my tears with theirs,And, while on earth I stay'd, still succour'd them;And their most righteous customs made me scornAll sects besides. Before I led the GreeksIn tuneful fiction, to the streams of Thebes,I was baptiz'd; but secretly, through fear,Remain'd a Christian, and conform'd long timeTo Pagan rites. Five centuries and more,T for that lukewarmness was fain to paceRound the fourth circle. Thou then, who hast rais'dThe covering, which did hide such blessing from me,Whilst much of this ascent is yet to climb,Say, if thou know, where our old Terence bides,Caecilius, Plautus, Varro: if condemn'dThey dwell, and in what province of the deep.""These," said my guide, "with Persius and myself,And others many more, are with that Greek,Of mortals, the most cherish'd by the Nine,In the first ward of darkness. There ofttimesWe of that mount hold converse, on whose topFor aye our nurses live. We have the bardOf Pella, and the Teian, Agatho,Simonides, and many a Grecian elseIngarlanded with laurel. Of thy trainAntigone is there, Deiphile,Argia, and as sorrowful as erstIsmene, and who show'd Langia's wave:Deidamia with her sisters there,And blind Tiresias' daughter, and the brideSea-born of Peleus." Either poet nowWas silent, and no longer by th' ascentOr the steep walls obstructed, round them castInquiring eyes. Four handmaids of the dayHad finish'd now their office, and the fifthWas at the chariot-beam, directing stillIts balmy point aloof, when thus my guide:"Methinks, it well behooves us to the brinkBend the right shoulder' circuiting the mount,As we have ever us'd." So custom thereWas usher to the road, the which we choseLess doubtful, as that worthy shade complied. They on before me went; I sole pursued,List'ning their speech, that to my thoughts convey'dMysterious lessons of sweet poesy.But soon they ceas'd; for midway of the roadA tree we found, with goodly fruitage hung,And pleasant to the smell: and as a firUpward from bough to bough less ample spreads,So downward this less ample spread, that none.Methinks, aloft may climb. Upon the side,That clos'd our path, a liquid crystal fellFrom the steep rock, and through the sprays aboveStream'd showering. With associate step the bardsDrew near the plant; and from amidst the leavesA voice was heard: "Ye shall be chary of me;"And after added: "Mary took more thoughtFor joy and honour of the nuptial feast,Than for herself who answers now for you.The women of old Rome were satisfiedWith water for their beverage. Daniel fedOn pulse, and wisdom gain'd. The primal ageWas beautiful as gold; and hunger thenMade acorns tasteful, thirst each rivuletRun nectar. Honey and locusts were the food,Whereon the Baptist in the wildernessFed, and that eminence of glory reach'dAnd greatness, which the' Evangelist records."

CANTO XXIII

On the green leaf mine eyes were fix'd, like hisWho throws away his days in idle chaseOf the diminutive, when thus I heardThe more than father warn me: "Son! our timeAsks thriftier using. Linger not: away." Thereat my face and steps at once I turn'dToward the sages, by whose converse cheer'dI journey'd on, and felt no toil: and lo!A sound of weeping and a song: "My lips,O Lord!" and these so mingled, it gave birthTo pleasure and to pain. "O Sire, belov'd!Say what is this I hear?" Thus I inquir'd. "Spirits," said he, "who as they go, perchance,Their debt of duty pay." As on their roadThe thoughtful pilgrims, overtaking someNot known unto them, turn to them, and look,But stay not; thus, approaching from behindWith speedier motion, eyed us, as they pass'd,A crowd of spirits, silent and devout.The eyes of each were dark and hollow: paleTheir visage, and so lean withal, the bonesStood staring thro' the skin. I do not thinkThus dry and meagre Erisicthon show'd,When pinc'ed by sharp-set famine to the quick. "Lo!" to myself I mus'd, "the race, who lostJerusalem, when Mary with dire beakPrey'd on her child." The sockets seem'd as rings,From which the gems were drops. Who reads the nameOf man upon his forehead, there the MHad trac'd most plainly. Who would deem, that scentOf water and an apple, could have prov'dPowerful to generate such pining want,Not knowing how it wrought? While now I stoodWond'ring what thus could waste them (for the causeOf their gaunt hollowness and scaly rindAppear'd not) lo! a spirit turn'd his eyesIn their deep-sunken cell, and fasten'd thenOn me, then cried with vehemence aloud:"What grace is this vouchsaf'd me?" By his looksI ne'er had recogniz'd him: but the voiceBrought to my knowledge what his cheer conceal'd.Remembrance of his alter'd lineamentsWas kindled from that spark; and I agniz'dThe visage of Forese. "Ah! respectThis wan and leprous wither'd skin," thus heSuppliant implor'd, "this macerated flesh.Speak to me truly of thyself. And whoAre those twain spirits, that escort thee there?Be it not said thou Scorn'st to talk with me." "That face of thine," I answer'd him, "which deadI once bewail'd, disposes me not lessFor weeping, when I see It thus transform'd.Say then, by Heav'n, what blasts ye thus? The whilstI wonder, ask not Speech from me: unaptIs he to speak, whom other will employs. He thus: "The water and tee plant we pass'd,Virtue possesses, by th' eternal willInfus'd, the which so pines me. Every spirit,Whose song bewails his gluttony indulg'dToo grossly, here in hunger and in thirstIs purified. The odour, which the fruit,And spray, that showers upon the verdure, breathe,Inflames us with desire to feed and drink.Nor once alone encompassing our routeWe come to add fresh fuel to the pain:Pain, said I? solace rather: for that willTo the tree leads us, by which Christ was ledTo call Elias, joyful when he paidOur ransom from his vein." I answering thus:"Forese! from that day, in which the worldFor better life thou changedst, not five yearsHave circled. If the power of sinning moreWere first concluded in thee, ere thou knew'stThat kindly grief, which re-espouses usTo God, how hither art thou come so soon?I thought to find thee lower, there, where timeIs recompense for time." He straight replied:"To drink up the sweet wormwood of afflictionI have been brought thus early by the tearsStream'd down my Nella's cheeks. Her prayers devout,Her sighs have drawn me from the coast, where oftExpectance lingers, and have set me freeFrom th' other circles. In the sight of GodSo much the dearer is my widow priz'd,She whom I lov'd so fondly, as she ranksMore singly eminent for virtuous deeds.The tract most barb'rous of Sardinia's isle,Hath dames more chaste and modester by farThan that wherein I left her. O sweet brother!What wouldst thou have me say? A time to comeStands full within my view, to which this hourShall not be counted of an ancient date,When from the pulpit shall be loudly warn'dTh' unblushing dames of Florence, lest they bareUnkerchief'd bosoms to the common gaze.What savage women hath the world e'er seen,What Saracens, for whom there needed scourgeOf spiritual or other discipline,To force them walk with cov'ring on their limbs!But did they see, the shameless ones, that Heav'nWafts on swift wing toward them, while I speak,Their mouths were op'd for howling: they shall tasteOf Borrow (unless foresight cheat me here)Or ere the cheek of him be cloth'd with downWho is now rock'd with lullaby asleep.Ah! now, my brother, hide thyself no more,Thou seest how not I alone but allGaze, where thou veil'st the intercepted sun." Whence I replied: "If thou recall to mindWhat we were once together, even yetRemembrance of those days may grieve thee sore.That I forsook that life, was due to himWho there precedes me, some few evenings past,When she was round, who shines with sister lampTo his, that glisters yonder," and I show'dThe sun. "Tis he, who through profoundest nightOf he true dead has brought me, with this fleshAs true, that follows. From that gloom the aidOf his sure comfort drew me on to climb,And climbing wind along this mountain-steep,Which rectifies in you whate'er the worldMade crooked and deprav'd I have his word,That he will bear me company as farAs till I come where Beatrice dwells:But there must leave me. Virgil is that spirit,Who thus hath promis'd," and I pointed to him;"The other is that shade, for whom so lateYour realm, as he arose, exulting shookThrough every pendent cliff and rocky bound."

CANTO XXIV

Our journey was not slacken'd by our talk,Nor yet our talk by journeying. Still we spake,And urg'd our travel stoutly, like a shipWhen the wind sits astern. The shadowy forms,That seem'd things dead and dead again, drew inAt their deep-delved orbs rare wonder of me,Perceiving I had life; and I my wordsContinued, and thus spake; "He journeys upPerhaps more tardily then else he would,For others' sake. But tell me, if thou know'st,Where is Piccarda? Tell me, if I seeAny of mark, among this multitude,Who eye me thus."--"My sister (she for whom,'Twixt beautiful and good I cannot sayWhich name was fitter ) wears e'en now her crown,And triumphs in Olympus." Saying this,He added: "Since spare diet hath so wornOur semblance out, 't is lawful here to nameEach one . This," and his finger then he rais'd,"Is Buonaggiuna,--Buonaggiuna, heOf Lucca: and that face beyond him, pierc'dUnto a leaner fineness than the rest,Had keeping of the church: he was of Tours,And purges by wan abstinence awayBolsena's eels and cups of muscadel." He show'd me many others, one by one,And all, as they were nam'd, seem'd well content;For no dark gesture I discern'd in any.I saw through hunger Ubaldino grindHis teeth on emptiness; and Boniface,That wav'd the crozier o'er a num'rous flock.I saw the Marquis, who tad time erewhileTo swill at Forli with less drought, yet soWas one ne'er sated. I howe'er, like him,That gazing 'midst a crowd, singles out one,So singled him of Lucca; for methoughtWas none amongst them took such note of me.Somewhat I heard him whisper of Gentucca:The sound was indistinct, and murmur'd there,Where justice, that so strips them, fix'd her sting. "Spirit!" said I, "it seems as thou wouldst fainSpeak with me. Let me hear thee. Mutual wishTo converse prompts, which let us both indulge." He, answ'ring, straight began: "Woman is born,Whose brow no wimple shades yet, that shall makeMy city please thee, blame it as they may.Go then with this forewarning. If aught falseMy whisper too implied, th' event shall tellBut say, if of a truth I see the manOf that new lay th' inventor, which beginsWith 'Ladies, ye that con the lore of love'." To whom I thus: "Count of me but as oneWho am the scribe of love; that, when he breathes,Take up my pen, and, as he dictates, write." "Brother!" said he, "the hind'rance which once heldThe notary with Guittone and myself,Short of that new and sweeter style I hear,Is now disclos'd. I see how ye your plumesStretch, as th' inditer guides them; which, no question,Ours did not. He that seeks a grace beyond,Sees not the distance parts one style from other."And, as contented, here he held his peace. Like as the bird, that winter near the Nile,In squared regiment direct their course,Then stretch themselves in file for speedier flight;Thus all the tribe of spirits, as they turn'dTheir visage, faster deaf, nimble alikeThrough leanness and desire. And as a man,Tir'd With the motion of a trotting steed,Slacks pace, and stays behind his company,Till his o'erbreathed lungs keep temperate time;E'en so Forese let that holy crewProceed, behind them lingering at my side,And saying: "When shall I again behold thee?" "How long my life may last," said I, "I know not;This know, how soon soever I return,My wishes will before me have arriv'd.Sithence the place, where I am set to live,Is, day by day, more scoop'd of all its good,And dismal ruin seems to threaten it." "Go now," he cried: "lo! he, whose guilt is most,Passes before my vision, dragg'd at heelsOf an infuriate beast. Toward the vale,Where guilt hath no redemption, on it speeds,Each step increasing swiftness on the last;Until a blow it strikes, that leaveth himA corse most vilely shatter'd. No long spaceThose wheels have yet to roll" (therewith his eyesLook'd up to heav'n) "ere thou shalt plainly seeThat which my words may not more plainly tell.I quit thee: time is precious here: I loseToo much, thus measuring my pace with shine." As from a troop of well-rank'd chivalryOne knight, more enterprising than the rest,Pricks forth at gallop, eager to displayHis prowess in the first encounter prov'dSo parted he from us with lengthen'd strides,And left me on the way with those twain spirits,Who were such mighty marshals of the world. When he beyond us had so fled mine eyesNo nearer reach'd him, than my thought his words,The branches of another fruit, thick hung,And blooming fresh, appear'd. E'en as our stepsTurn'd thither, not far off it rose to view.Beneath it were a multitude, that rais'dTheir hands, and shouted forth I know not WhatUnto the boughs; like greedy and fond brats,That beg, and answer none obtain from him,Of whom they beg; but more to draw them on,He at arm's length the object of their wishAbove them holds aloft, and hides it not. At length, as undeceiv'd they went their way:And we approach the tree, who vows and tearsSue to in vain, the mighty tree. "Pass on,And come not near. Stands higher up the wood,Whereof Eve tasted, and from it was ta'en'this plant." Such sounds from midst the thickets came.Whence I, with either bard, close to the sideThat rose, pass'd forth beyond. "Remember," nextWe heard, "those noblest creatures of the clouds,How they their twofold bosoms overgorg'dOppos'd in fight to Theseus: call to mindThe Hebrews, how effeminate they stoop'dTo ease their thirst; whence Gideon's ranks were thinn'd,As he to Midian march'd adown the hills." Thus near one border coasting, still we heardThe sins of gluttony, with woe erewhileReguerdon'd. Then along the lonely path,Once more at large, full thousand paces onWe travel'd, each contemplative and mute. "Why pensive journey thus ye three alone?"Thus suddenly a voice exclaim'd: whereatI shook, as doth a scar'd and paltry beast;Then rais'd my head to look from whence it came. Was ne'er, in furnace, glass, or metal seenSo bright and glowing red, as was the shapeI now beheld. "If ye desire to mount,"He cried, "here must ye turn. This way he goes,Who goes in quest of peace." His countenanceHad dazzled me; and to my guides I fac'dBackward, like one who walks, as sound directs. As when, to harbinger the dawn, springs upOn freshen'd wing the air of May, and breathesOf fragrance, all impregn'd with herb and flowers,E'en such a wind I felt upon my frontBlow gently, and the moving of a wingPerceiv'd, that moving shed ambrosial smell;And then a voice: "Blessed are they, whom graceDoth so illume, that appetite in themExhaleth no inordinate desire,Still hung'ring as the rule of temperance wills."

CANTO XXV

It was an hour, when he who climbs, had needTo walk uncrippled: for the sun had nowTo Taurus the meridian circle left,And to the Scorpion left the night. As oneThat makes no pause, but presses on his road,Whate'er betide him, if some urgent needImpel: so enter'd we upon our way,One before other; for, but singly, noneThat steep and narrow scale admits to climb. E'en as the young stork lifteth up his wingThrough wish to fly, yet ventures not to quitThe nest, and drops it; so in me desireOf questioning my guide arose, and fell,Arriving even to the act, that marksA man prepar'd for speech. Him all our hasteRestrain'd not, but thus spake the sire belov'd:Fear not to speed the shaft, that on thy lipStands trembling for its flight." Encourag'd thusI straight began: "How there can leanness come,Where is no want of nourishment to feed?" "If thou," he answer'd, "hadst remember'd thee,How Meleager with the wasting brandWasted alike, by equal fires consm'd,This would not trouble thee: and hadst thou thought,How in the mirror your reflected formWith mimic motion vibrates, what now seemsHard, had appear'd no harder than the pulpOf summer fruit mature. But that thy willIn certainty may find its full repose,Lo Statius here! on him I call, and prayThat he would now be healer of thy wound." "If in thy presence I unfold to himThe secrets of heaven's vengeance, let me pleadThine own injunction, to exculpate me."So Statius answer'd, and forthwith began:"Attend my words, O son, and in thy mindReceive them: so shall they be light to clearThe doubt thou offer'st. Blood, concocted well,Which by the thirsty veins is ne'er imbib'd,And rests as food superfluous, to be ta'enFrom the replenish'd table, in the heartDerives effectual virtue, that informsThe several human limbs, as being that,Which passes through the veins itself to make them.Yet more concocted it descends, where shameForbids to mention: and from thence distilsIn natural vessel on another's blood.Then each unite together, one dispos'dT' endure, to act the other, through meet frameOf its recipient mould: that being reach'd,It 'gins to work, coagulating first;Then vivifies what its own substance caus'dTo bear. With animation now indued,The active virtue (differing from a plantNo further, than that this is on the wayAnd at its limit that) continues yetTo operate, that now it moves, and feels,As sea sponge clinging to the rock: and thereAssumes th' organic powers its seed convey'd.'This is the period, son! at which the virtue,That from the generating heart proceeds,Is pliant and expansive; for each limbIs in the heart by forgeful nature plann'd.How babe of animal becomes, remainsFor thy consid'ring. At this point, more wise,Than thou hast err'd, making the soul disjoin'dFrom passive intellect, because he sawNo organ for the latter's use assign'd. "Open thy bosom to the truth that comes.Know soon as in the embryo, to the brain,Articulation is complete, then turnsThe primal Mover with a smile of joyOn such great work of nature, and imbreathesNew spirit replete with virtue, that what hereActive it finds, to its own substance draws,And forms an individual soul, that lives,And feels, and bends reflective on itself.And that thou less mayst marvel at the word,Mark the sun's heat, how that to wine doth change,Mix'd with the moisture filter'd through the vine. "When Lachesis hath spun the thread, the soulTakes with her both the human and divine,Memory, intelligence, and will, in actFar keener than before, the other powersInactive all and mute. No pause allow'd,In wond'rous sort self-moving, to one strandOf those, where the departed roam, she falls,Here learns her destin'd path. Soon as the placeReceives her, round the plastic virtue beams,Distinct as in the living limbs before:And as the air, when saturate with showers,The casual beam refracting, decks itselfWith many a hue; so here the ambient airWeareth that form, which influence of the soulImprints on it; and like the flame, that whereThe fire moves, thither follows, so henceforthThe new form on the spirit follows still:Hence hath it semblance, and is shadow call'd,With each sense even to the sight endued:Hence speech is ours, hence laughter, tears, and sighsWhich thou mayst oft have witness'd on the mountTh' obedient shadow fails not to presentWhatever varying passion moves within us.And this the cause of what thou marvel'st at." Now the last flexure of our way we reach'd,And to the right hand turning, other careAwaits us. Here the rocky precipiceHurls forth redundant flames, and from the rimA blast upblown, with forcible rebuffDriveth them back, sequester'd from its bound. Behoov'd us, one by one, along the side,That border'd on the void, to pass; and IFear'd on one hand the fire, on th' other fear'dHeadlong to fall: when thus th' instructor warn'd:"Strict rein must in this place direct the eyes.A little swerving and the way is lost." Then from the bosom of the burning mass,"O God of mercy!" heard I sung; and feltNo less desire to turn. And when I sawSpirits along the flame proceeding, IBetween their footsteps and mine own was fainTo share by turns my view. At the hymn's closeThey shouted loud, "I do not know a man;"Then in low voice again took up the strain,Which once more ended, "To the wood," they cried,"Ran Dian, and drave forth Callisto, stungWith Cytherea's poison:" then return'dUnto their song; then marry a pair extoll'd,Who liv'd in virtue chastely, and the bandsOf wedded love. Nor from that task, I ween,Surcease they; whilesoe'er the scorching fireEnclasps them. Of such skill appliance needsTo medicine the wound, that healeth last.

CANTO XXVI

While singly thus along the rim we walk'd,Oft the good master warn'd me: "Look thou well.Avail it that I caution thee." The sunNow all the western clime irradiate chang'dFrom azure tinct to white; and, as I pass'd,My passing shadow made the umber'd flameBurn ruddier. At so strange a sight I mark'dThat many a spirit marvel'd on his way. This bred occasion first to speak of me,"He seems," said they, "no insubstantial frame:"Then to obtain what certainty they might,Stretch'd towards me, careful not to overpassThe burning pale. "O thou, who followestThe others, haply not more slow than they,But mov'd by rev'rence, answer me, who burnIn thirst and fire: nor I alone, but theseAll for thine answer do more thirst, than dothIndian or Aethiop for the cooling stream.Tell us, how is it that thou mak'st thyselfA wall against the sun, as thou not yetInto th' inextricable toils of deathHadst enter'd?" Thus spake one, and I had straightDeclar'd me, if attention had not turn'dTo new appearance. Meeting these, there came,Midway the burning path, a crowd, on whomEarnestly gazing, from each part I viewThe shadows all press forward, sev'rallyEach snatch a hasty kiss, and then away.E'en so the emmets, 'mid their dusky troops,Peer closely one at other, to spy outTheir mutual road perchance, and how they thrive. That friendly greeting parted, ere dispatchOf the first onward step, from either tribeLoud clamour rises: those, who newly come,Shout Sodom and Gomorrah!" these, "The cowPasiphae enter'd, that the beast she woo'dMight rush unto her luxury." Then as cranes,That part towards the Riphaean mountains fly,Part towards the Lybic sands, these to avoidThe ice, and those the sun; so hasteth offOne crowd, advances th' other; and resumeTheir first song weeping, and their several shout. Again drew near my side the very same,Who had erewhile besought me, and their looksMark'd eagerness to listen. I, who twiceTheir will had noted, spake: "O spirits secure,Whene'er the time may be, of peaceful end!My limbs, nor crude, nor in mature old age,Have I left yonder: here they bear me, fedWith blood, and sinew-strung. That I no moreMay live in blindness, hence I tend aloft.There is a dame on high, who wind for usThis grace, by which my mortal through your realmI bear. But may your utmost wish soon meetSuch full fruition, that the orb of heaven,Fullest of love, and of most ample space,Receive you, as ye tell (upon my pageHenceforth to stand recorded) who ye are,And what this multitude, that at your backsHave past behind us." As one, mountain-bred,Rugged and clownish, if some city's wallsHe chance to enter, round him stares agape,Confounded and struck dumb; e'en such appear'dEach spirit. But when rid of that amaze,(Not long the inmate of a noble heart)He, who before had question'd, thus resum'd:"O blessed, who, for death preparing, tak'stExperience of our limits, in thy bark!Their crime, who not with us proceed, was that,For which, as he did triumph, Caesar heardThe snout of 'queen,' to taunt him. Hence their cryOf 'Sodom,' as they parted, to rebukeThemselves, and aid the burning by their shame.Our sinning was Hermaphrodite: but we,Because the law of human kind we broke,Following like beasts our vile concupiscence,Hence parting from them, to our own disgraceRecord the name of her, by whom the beastIn bestial tire was acted. Now our deedsThou know'st, and how we sinn'd. If thou by nameWouldst haply know us, time permits not nowTo tell so much, nor can I. Of myselfLearn what thou wishest. Guinicelli I,Who having truly sorrow'd ere my last,Already cleanse me." With such pious joy,As the two sons upon their mother gaz'dFrom sad Lycurgus rescu'd, such my joy(Save that I more represt it) when I heardFrom his own lips the name of him pronounc'd,Who was a father to me, and to thoseMy betters, who have ever us'd the sweetAnd pleasant rhymes of love. So nought I heardNor spake, but long time thoughtfully I went,Gazing on him; and, only for the fire,Approach'd not nearer. When my eyes were fedBy looking on him, with such solemn pledge,As forces credence, I devoted meUnto his service wholly. In replyHe thus bespake me: "What from thee I hearIs grav'd so deeply on my mind, the wavesOf Lethe shall not wash it off, nor makeA whit less lively. But as now thy oathHas seal'd the truth, declare what cause impelsThat love, which both thy looks and speech bewray." "Those dulcet lays," I answer'd, "which, as longAs of our tongue the beauty does not fade,Shall make us love the very ink that trac'd them." "Brother!" he cried, and pointed at a shadeBefore him, "there is one, whose mother speechDoth owe to him a fairer ornament.He in love ditties and the tales of proseWithout a rival stands, and lets the foolsTalk on, who think the songster of LimogesO'ertops him. Rumour and the popular voiceThey look to more than truth, and so confirmOpinion, ere by art or reason taught.Thus many of the elder time cried upGuittone, giving him the prize, till truthBy strength of numbers vanquish'd. If thou ownSo ample privilege, as to have gain'dFree entrance to the cloister, whereof ChristIs Abbot of the college, say to himOne paternoster for me, far as needsFor dwellers in this world, where power to sinNo longer tempts us." Haply to make wayFor one, that follow'd next, when that was said,He vanish'd through the fire, as through the waveA fish, that glances diving to the deep. I, to the spirit he had shown me, drewA little onward, and besought his name,For which my heart, I said, kept gracious room.He frankly thus began: "Thy courtesySo wins on me, I have nor power nor willTo hide me. I am Arnault; and with songs,Sorely lamenting for my folly past,Thorough this ford of fire I wade, and seeThe day, I hope for, smiling in my view.I pray ye by the worth that guides ye upUnto the summit of the scale, in timeRemember ye my suff'rings." With such wordsHe disappear'd in the refining flame.

CANTO XXVII

Now was the sun so station'd, as when firstHis early radiance quivers on the heights,Where stream'd his Maker's blood, while Libra hangsAbove Hesperian Ebro, and new firesMeridian flash on Ganges' yellow tide. So day was sinking, when the' angel of GodAppear'd before us. Joy was in his mien.Forth of the flame he stood upon the brink,And with a voice, whose lively clearness farSurpass'd our human, "Blessed are the pureIn heart," he Sang: then near him as we came,"Go ye not further, holy spirits!" he cried,"Ere the fire pierce you: enter in; and listAttentive to the song ye hear from thence." I, when I heard his saying, was as oneLaid in the grave. My hands together clasp'd,And upward stretching, on the fire I look'd,And busy fancy conjur'd up the formsErewhile beheld alive consum'd in flames. Th' escorting spirits turn'd with gentle looksToward me, and the Mantuan spake: "My son,Here torment thou mayst feel, but canst not death.Remember thee, remember thee, if ISafe e'en on Geryon brought thee: now I comeMore near to God, wilt thou not trust me now?Of this be sure: though in its womb that flameA thousand years contain'd thee, from thy headNo hair should perish. If thou doubt my truth,Approach, and with thy hands thy vesture's hemStretch forth, and for thyself confirm belief.Lay now all fear, O lay all fear aside.Turn hither, and come onward undismay'd."I still, though conscience urg'd' no step advanc'd. When still he saw me fix'd and obstinate,Somewhat disturb'd he cried: "Mark now, my son,From Beatrice thou art by this wallDivided." As at Thisbe's name the eyeOf Pyramus was open'd (when life ebb'dFast from his veins), and took one parting glance,While vermeil dyed the mulberry; thus I turn'dTo my sage guide, relenting, when I heardThe name, that springs forever in my breast. He shook his forehead; and, "How long," he said,"Linger we now?" then smil'd, as one would smileUpon a child, that eyes the fruit and yields.Into the fire before me then he walk'd;And Statius, who erewhile no little spaceHad parted us, he pray'd to come behind. I would have cast me into molten glassTo cool me, when I enter'd; so intenseRag'd the conflagrant mass. The sire belov'd,To comfort me, as he proceeded, stillOf Beatrice talk'd. "Her eyes," saith he,"E'en now I seem to view." From the other sideA voice, that sang, did guide us, and the voiceFollowing, with heedful ear, we issued forth,There where the path led upward. "Come," we heard,"Come, blessed of my Father." Such the sounds,That hail'd us from within a light, which shoneSo radiant, I could not endure the view."The sun," it added, "hastes: and evening comes.Delay not: ere the western sky is hungWith blackness, strive ye for the pass." Our wayUpright within the rock arose, and fac'dSuch part of heav'n, that from before my stepsThe beams were shrouded of the sinking sun. Nor many stairs were overpass, when nowBy fading of the shadow we perceiv'dThe sun behind us couch'd: and ere one faceOf darkness o'er its measureless expanseInvolv'd th' horizon, and the night her lotHeld individual, each of us had madeA stair his pallet: not that will, but power,Had fail'd us, by the nature of that mountForbidden further travel. As the goats,That late have skipp'd and wanton'd rapidlyUpon the craggy cliffs, ere they had ta'enTheir supper on the herb, now silent lieAnd ruminate beneath the umbrage brown,While noonday rages; and the goatherd leansUpon his staff, and leaning watches them:And as the swain, that lodges out all nightIn quiet by his flock, lest beast of preyDisperse them; even so all three abode,I as a goat and as the shepherds they,Close pent on either side by shelving rock. A little glimpse of sky was seen above;Yet by that little I beheld the starsIn magnitude and rustle shining forthWith more than wonted glory. As I lay,Gazing on them, and in that fit of musing,Sleep overcame me, sleep, that bringeth oftTidings of future hap. About the hour,As I believe, when Venus from the eastFirst lighten'd on the mountain, she whose orbSeems always glowing with the fire of love,A lady young and beautiful, I dream'd,Was passing o'er a lea; and, as she came,Methought I saw her ever and anonBending to cull the flowers; and thus she sang:"Know ye, whoever of my name would ask,That I am Leah: for my brow to weaveA garland, these fair hands unwearied ply.To please me at the crystal mirror, hereI deck me. But my sister Rachel, sheBefore her glass abides the livelong day,Her radiant eyes beholding, charm'd no less,Than I with this delightful task. Her joyIn contemplation, as in labour mine." And now as glimm'ring dawn appear'd, that breaksMore welcome to the pilgrim still, as heSojourns less distant on his homeward way,Darkness from all sides fled, and with it fledMy slumber; whence I rose and saw my guideAlready risen. "That delicious fruit,Which through so many a branch the zealous careOf mortals roams in quest of, shall this dayAppease thy hunger." Such the words I heardFrom Virgil's lip; and never greeting heardSo pleasant as the sounds. Within me straightDesire so grew upon desire to mount,Thenceforward at each step I felt the wingsIncreasing for my flight. When we had runO'er all the ladder to its topmost round,As there we stood, on me the Mantuan fix'dHis eyes, and thus he spake: "Both fires, my son,The temporal and eternal, thou hast seen,And art arriv'd, where of itself my kenNo further reaches. I with skill and artThus far have drawn thee. Now thy pleasure takeFor guide. Thou hast o'ercome the steeper way,O'ercome the straighter. Lo! the sun, that dartsHis beam upon thy forehead! lo! the herb,The arboreta and flowers, which of itselfThis land pours forth profuse! Till those bright eyesWith gladness come, which, weeping, made me hasteTo succour thee, thou mayst or seat thee down,Or wander where thou wilt. Expect no moreSanction of warning voice or sign from me,Free of thy own arbitrement to choose,Discreet, judicious. To distrust thy senseWere henceforth error. I invest thee thenWith crown and mitre, sovereign o'er thyself."

CANTO XXVIII

Through that celestial forest, whose thick shadeWith lively greenness the new-springing dayAttemper'd, eager now to roam, and searchIts limits round, forthwith I left the bank,Along the champain leisurely my wayPursuing, o'er the ground, that on all sidesDelicious odour breath'd. A pleasant air,That intermitted never, never veer'd,Smote on my temples, gently, as a windOf softest influence: at which the sprays,Obedient all, lean'd trembling to that partWhere first the holy mountain casts his shade,Yet were not so disorder'd, but that stillUpon their top the feather'd quiristersApplied their wonted art, and with full joyWelcom'd those hours of prime, and warbled shrillAmid the leaves, that to their jocund laysinept tenor; even as from branch to branch,Along the piney forests on the shoreOf Chiassi, rolls the gath'ring melody,When Eolus hath from his cavern loos'dThe dripping south. Already had my steps,Though slow, so far into that ancient woodTransported me, I could not ken the placeWhere I had enter'd, when behold! my pathWas bounded by a rill, which to the leftWith little rippling waters bent the grass,That issued from its brink. On earth no waveHow clean soe'er, that would not seem to haveSome mixture in itself, compar'd with this,Transpicuous, clear; yet darkly on it roll'd,Darkly beneath perpetual gloom, which ne'erAdmits or sun or moon light there to shine. My feet advanc'd not; but my wond'ring eyesPass'd onward, o'er the streamlet, to surveyThe tender May-bloom, flush'd through many a hue,In prodigal variety: and there,As object, rising suddenly to view,That from our bosom every thought besideWith the rare marvel chases, I beheldA lady all alone, who, singing, went,And culling flower from flower, wherewith her wayWas all o'er painted. "Lady beautiful!Thou, who (if looks, that use to speak the heart,Are worthy of our trust), with love's own beamDost warm thee," thus to her my speech I fram'd:"Ah! please thee hither towards the streamlet bendThy steps so near, that I may list thy song.Beholding thee and this fair place, methinks,I call to mind where wander'd and how look'dProserpine, in that season, when her childThe mother lost, and she the bloomy spring." As when a lady, turning in the dance,Doth foot it featly, and advances scarceOne step before the other to the ground;Over the yellow and vermilion flowersThus turn'd she at my suit, most maiden-like,Valing her sober eyes, and came so near,That I distinctly caught the dulcet sound.Arriving where the limped waters nowLav'd the green sward, her eyes she deign'd to raise,That shot such splendour on me, as I weenNe'er glanced from Cytherea's, when her sonHad sped his keenest weapon to her heart.Upon the opposite bank she stood and smil'dthrough her graceful fingers shifted stillThe intermingling dyes, which without seedThat lofty land unbosoms. By the streamThree paces only were we sunder'd: yet